by G Lawrence
Their banners were painted with the Five Wounds of Christ, implying a link to the Pilgrimage of Grace, the rebellion in my father’s reign which had arisen due to his break from Rome and suppression of the monasteries. It was fitting, perhaps, since Northumberland’s father had been executed for his part in that rebellion, but I liked not their allusion to it. It meant they thought they had God on their side.
To my mind, God is with those who seek peace. Those who would justify war, atrocities and murder, call upon God so they might excuse themselves. The Earls were mistaken in thinking the Almighty would support such horrors… as I would demonstrate.
At that moment, the Earls had the advantage. It would take time to march our troops north. Sussex, although a fool to force the Earls into rebellion, was not a dalcop in other matters. He knew he could not risk direct engagement with the rebels until my army reached him. If the Earls had decided to take him on at that point, they might have succeeded, but the rebels appeared more concerned with hearing Catholic Mass everywhere they went than pressing their advantage.
They were both arrogant and stupid; a fatal combination.
To call men to them, they had the church bells ring backwards, apparently to stir up the masses. Whilst at Ripon, they stated their intentions in a proclamation which was copied and brought to me at Windsor.
“Forasmuch as diverse and evil-disposed persons about the Queen’s Majesty have, by their subtle and crafty dealings to advance themselves, overcome in this realm the true and Catholic religion towards God, and by the same abused the Queen, disordered the realm and now lastly seek and procure the destruction of the nobility. We, therefore, have gathered ourselves together to resist by force, and rather by the help of God and you good people, to see redress of these things amiss, with the restoring of all ancient customs and liberties to God’s Church, and this noble realm.”
The evil persons were my Council, primarily Cecil, Robin and perhaps Walsingham. Although this was frightening news for my men, it at least meant the rebellious Earls intended no physical harm to me. They wanted to force me to dismiss my men and restore the Catholic faith. Their grumbles about subverting the nobility were based on jealousy. The Earls thought my promotion of men of common blood unnatural, since all offices and riches should naturally be in the hands of nobility.
Since religion was their other primary objective, it was unsurprising they also declared they were to free Mary, who they proclaimed the just successor to the throne. The Earls stated the right to decide the succession was theirs, as the ancient nobility of England.
Westmoreland was a Neville, Northumberland a Percy, so they had some right to claim they were of hallowed stock, but they had no right to threaten me. I was a daughter of the most ancient lines, the oldest blood, and if my grandfather’s claim to England had been slim, the combined offering of York and Lancaster blood in my veins was strong and true.
“At least they do not mean to murder you, Majesty,” Robin said.
“No,” I replied. “Only to violate my power.”
I saw them as equal evils. To remove my power was as good as murdering me. To threaten my freedom was to threaten my life. I was no puppet, about to sit on my throne as men moved my lips and waved my hands. If the Earls thought I was about to allow such desecration of my personal, God-given, regnant power, they were much mistaken.
That night I went to my father’s tomb in St George’s Chapel in the Lower Ward of the castle confines. Under glorious dusk skies I walked to the huge Chapel as above me slipping shades of indigo brushed against pink and violet, layers of colour blending… at once distinct and as one.
Hatton and my guards waited near the doorway as my shoes clipped across the floor, strewn with herbs and rushes, to stand before the grave of my father.
Above the upper stalls of the choir, the heraldic banners of the Order of the Garter wafted in the cool night air. At the altar were buried the bones of my ancestors; Edward IV, Henry VI, Elisabeth Woodville… and at the quire, my father and Jane Seymour.
Usually, I did not come here. My father lay for the rest of eternity beside the woman who had displaced my mother, and although I had loved her son, my brother Edward, I had known Jane Seymour had feared and despised me. Sometimes, when ghosts do not want you near, you should stay away.
But that night, I had need of my father. His spirit I felt often in the palaces I had inherited from him, but that night I needed to be closer to him.
“You would not have hesitated,” I whispered to his bones. “When men rose against you, you put them down. Should I do the same, Father? Punish with sword and fire those who would rise to challenge me? Or should I heed the gentler climes of my conscience, and take them into custody alone?”
A breeze ruffled the curtains surrounding his tomb. Was it an answer, from my father’s spirit? Was it his Queen telling me to depart? I knew not, but as no answer came, I understood. This choice was mine to make, and mine alone.
I slept fitfully that night, my dreams hounded by mobs of men screaming for my blood. I ran in dreams where my feet were always too slow, too feeble, to outrun my would-be captors. I awoke with a start, long before dawn, and rose, my flesh trembling and my mind unable to find rest.
The rebels reached Selby, not so far from Tutbury, but they were disappointed by England’s response. There was no general uprising, no hordes of disaffected masses streaming to join them with cries of revolt upon their lips. We had reports that their numbers were no more than five thousand. Support from Spain or France also did not come. The rebels were alone.
“I draw comfort from this,” I said to Cecil. “My people are loyal.”
“I must admit, madam, even I am surprised to see the Catholic faction in England have not risen.”
“Do you understand now that had we treated them poorly, this rebellion might have had more followers?”
Cecil did not answer. He did not like to be wrong.
I took heart from the lack of support for the Earls. This demonstrated that my moderate stance against Catholics had brought about the correct response; loyalty. It is often said that violence breeds violence, as goodness spawns goodness. Never was this clearer to me than on that day. English Catholics had chosen me over their religion. The feeling of loneliness, a boring weight in my heart, lifted. Suddenly, my soul was light as the wings of a butterfly.
“Remember this day, Cecil. Remember the loyalty of English Catholics.”
It was something I, certainly, would not forget.
My people had banished my loneliness. It would return, for loneliness is an unwelcome guest who never truly departs, but my people had granted me strength, a shield to batter it backwards. That could never be repaid.
The royal army, under the command of Ambrose Dudley, and my Carey cousin, Lord Hunsdon, were dispatched. Admiral Clinton took to the seas. My troops were deployed.
No one questioned why Ambrose, brother to a man everyone knew had played a part in Norfolk’s plot, was chosen to lead my army. They might have wondered too, why Huntingdon, Robin’s brother-in-law, was sent to guard Mary. Seeing all this, it should have been clear to any with wit that Robin was implacably my man, and had been working for me.
At just under fourteen thousand strong, my army was more than a match for the rebels. Although there were some who were inexperienced, many of my men were trained soldiers, and all were armed with musket or pike, dagger and sword. Those rising to the banner of the Earls were largely peasants, carrying scythes and staffs. A reserve guard was held back for my personal protection, and the Aldermen of London mustered guns ready for use should the rebels think of coming for my capital. City gates and portcullises were fixed in place, and my Gentlemen Pensioners readied for action. Mostly comprised of young courtiers, they alone were eager for the rebellion to reach London. Bravado made them keen for action, and oblivious to danger.
“Have my Gentlemen Pensioners all armed, with both musket and sword,” I said to Hatton. “They are to stand guard at each a
nd every entrance to my chambers and throughout the gardens. If any strangers ask to enter, they are to detain them.”
I was afraid that if any in London who supported the northern rebels heard of their proclamation, someone might try to sneak into the castle, to gain control of me. It was not an impossible thought. Thomas Seymour had once tried to take my brother captive. If someone had me, they could demand anything.
Hatton ran off to gather the other Pensioners. They were excited, and their fire for action, combined with their fierce loyalty to me, was heartening, no matter how ill-advised their lust for glory was.
Soon we had word the rebels were marching on Tutbury. Unaware, at first, that Mary was no longer there, they marched with speed. When they heard she was gone into the Protestant Midlands, and my army was on their tail, they began to lose heart. The weather aided them not. Rain fell, making roads hard to traverse, and cruel winter winds came early, sweeping across England. Looking from Windsor’s windows at the driving rain, I saw a landscape of grey. The rebels were sleeping rough, using bracken and coats as their tents.
“We hear they have little food,” said Cecil. “They will not last long.”
“They will abuse my people and steal from them,” I said angrily.
“Which will only turn more people against them, Majesty.”
We kept a nervous eye on reports. There was still a chance they might get to Mary or succeed against my men, and this made me do something I had no wish to.
I had to consider executing Mary. I could not allow her to fall into rebel hands, and although the evidence that she had communicated with Northumberland and Westmoreland was spare at best, it remained a distinct possibility she was embroiled in this rebellion. At Cecil’s urging, I drew up a death warrant, but I did not sign it. It was only to be used if she was proved complicit in the rebellion, but even as a mere possibility it gave me restless nights.
How could I kill a fellow queen? Quite aside from issues of right and wrong, how could I place myself in danger by allowing a queen to die at my hands? France, Spain, Rome and perhaps even Scotland would not stand for it, and I harboured doubts my people would uphold my decision either. There was great support for Mary in some quarters.
There were also considerations of the soul. Mary was my blood, my kinswoman, one of the last descendants of my grandfather left to this world. Should I make my heart a tomb, as my sister and father had?
“Only if the rebels seem likely to succeed, or if Mary is found guilty of involvement, will that be used,” I said to Cecil when I handed the warrant to him. “I want that rightly understood, Cecil.”
As he went to take the parchment, I held onto it. “I cannot do it, Cecil,” I murmured. “I cannot kill my cousin.”
“It will only be used in event of emergency,” he said.
Even in such an event, I was not sure I had it in me to murder Mary.
*
During the day, at Windsor, I ensured I was highly visible. I had to show a cool, brave face to the world. If I panicked, Hell would be unleashed.
Pembroke, who had been restored to court, was at my side constantly, along with Robin. I was glad Pembroke had been released. I liked the man, despite his unfortunate choice of friends. Cecil and Walsingham were united in the thought that he had only supported the marriage plot. Robin agreed, and testified he had seen little of Pembroke in his days working undercover. When Pembroke heard Robin had spoken for him, it went a long way to healing their old rift.
“Get word to Admiral Clinton. I want guards at the ports on double shifts,” I barked at Pembroke as we marched through Windsor’s dim corridors. “No one can be allowed to slip in or out, and send men to aid Lord Scrope on the borders. I want no one fleeing to Scotland.”
“They will not escape us, Majesty.” Pembroke sounded out of breath, but I did not moderate my steps. I had to keep busy, keep moving… so my fears could not catch me.
Later that day I sat in my Presence Chamber, listening to reports. My head was aching. I had not slept more than a few hours for many nights. I was exhausted, but I could not stop.
“Madam, you should retire,” said Helena, seeing me pass a tired hand over even more weary eyes.
“I should not.”
“The days have been long, and you are exhausted.”
“Look about, Helena,” I said softly without turning my head. “Tell me, where do all eyes wend?”
She did as I asked, then gazed up at me. “At you, Majesty.”
I gave an almost imperceptible nod. “At me. I am their figurehead, the pennant, the banner. That is what a queen is. And like a banner held aloft in battle, I cannot falter, I cannot fall. I am England, Helena. If they cease to gaze upon me, my people will look elsewhere, to the pennants of my foes, or to the shadows where darkness becomes unsurpassable. As long as I am here, as long as I stand, undaunted and visible, they have no cause to look elsewhere. As long as I am here, my people are safe.”
I held my head up and straightened my shoulders. All about the room, backs which had been growing hunched unfurled, and men stood tall.
Helena watched with wide eyes. “Do you see?” I asked. “They do not even note it, but as I stand tall, so do they.”
“I do see, Majesty,” she said, a tone of reverence in her voice. “You are the spirit of England.”
“And that spirit shall not run, nor hide. It will not sleep or rest whilst danger stalks the land. It will remain. It will stand brave and true, facing all oncoming storms with patience and strength.” I looked into her hazel eyes.
“It will survive,” I said, “As will England.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Windsor Castle
Christmas 1569
As if I have not enough to deal with, I thought irritably, throwing a roll of parchment on the table.
It was a missive from Lord Admiral Clinton. Captain Sores, a Huguenot commander of the Sea Beggars had taken two ships in English waters. They were supposed to only be attacking Spanish vessels, but this time Sores had chosen two Venetian ships, the Vergi and Justiniana, both sailing to London carrying supplies of silk, sugar, wine, lead, tin and pewter. This threatened English trade with Venice, a most lucrative path I had no wish to stray from. The Venetian Empire was an ally of Spain, joined with them in the Holy League, and Sores had justified the attack based on this alliance. But Venetian trade was vital to England.
When my Lord Admiral complained, the Queen of Navarre, who had been sent the ships, had refused to send back the cargo, protesting she needed supplies for the war in France. The two captured ships were also far superior to anything her navy had. She had renamed the Vergi the Huguenotte and it swiftly became embroiled in the war, as the strongest ship in the Huguenot fleet. Later, it would be used to break the Catholic blockade of La Rochelle; a pivotal moment in the war of religion.
I could understand why the desperate Huguenot Queen wanted the ships, but this put our arrangement in jeopardy. I could not allow English trade to come under attack. If the Sea Beggars would not keep their end of the bargain, I could not keep mine.
But sunshine was breaking through the clouds of my day. It was clear the northern rebellion was falling apart. Unnerved by being unable to reach Mary, and frightened by the approaching mass of my army, the rebels fell to panic and confusion.
As Christmas approached, rebels were running. Northumberland, his wife, and Westmoreland made for Scotland, along with sixty younger sons of the gentry. Sussex pursued them.
“The vermin are fled to foreign cover,” Cecil observed on Christmas Day.
“I shall send my cat of Sussex to pounce on them,” I said.
My court breathed a collective sigh of relief, as did London. Only my bold Gentlemen Pensioners were disgruntled the rebels had turned tail before they saw a slice of action. With chaos falling upon the rebels, we managed to pass Christmas with some celebrations. The pageants and feasts were nothing to previous years, but there was laughter and dancing. It felt as though Engla
nd had been curled in a ball, waiting for an abusive hand to strike. As the threat fell apart, England unfurled. If you listened carefully, you could hear it, a sigh of relief upon the wind.
It was then I had news that displeased me.
Walsingham had found that Phillip of Spain had sent funds to the rebellion, and Alba, along with the Pope, had sent coin to Mary. There was word from Scotland that Alba had intended to send troops there, to overthrow Moray and take back Mary’s throne.
I felt Phillip’s swift kick of revenge in my belly. The willingness of my foes to become involved in the northern rebellion was unnerving. Phillip of Spain was clearly more averse to me than I had imagined.
Perhaps Phillip knew I had sent arms to Orange, or resented my deals with the Sea Beggars. Perhaps he had thought to offer the same disruption to my kingdom as I had to his. But he had directly supported the pretender to my throne, whereas I had counselled him to make peace with his subjects. I had never supported his overthrow, only offered support to another anointed prince, yet Phillip had worked to unseat me. The King of Spain had gone too far.